Her reason was that she was afraid to be left alone with him lest she should grow self-conscious. It was easier to talk in crowds. And how they did talk! Her little prepared speeches, her scraps of nervously gathered information were all forgotten. They were two children sailing through a Christmas world on a schooner of the London streets. House-tops were white with snow; shops gay with decorations. In the murky grayness of the sky a derelict sun wallowed, like a ship on fire. It was a happy day; their eyes were bright to find something on every hand to laugh about. Now it was a cutler's window, merry with mistletoe and holly, all a-gleam with gnashing knives and razors, across which was pasted the legend, “Remember the Loved Ones at Home.” Now it was an undertaker's, in which stood a placard: DO IT NOW JOIN MY COFFIN CLUB ANYONE CAN LIVE MAKE SURE OF GETTING BURIED A TACTFUL CHRISTMAS PRESENT GIVE A YEAR'S SUBSCRIPTION TO A FRIEND Glory grew out of her shyness; she snuggled her chin against her squirrel muff, laughing and chatting, saying things which surprised herself. Peter kept glancing at her side-long. She was tender-looking. Yes, she was like Kay. He'd noticed that before. He noticed her for a day, and then forgot her for months. It had always been like that. Was it his fault? She was like a snow-drop--she had a knack of hiding herself. They got off at Wardour Street, tunneling into dingy alleys from which Italy watches strangers with sad brown eyes, dreaming of vineyards and sun-baked towns. Glory twitched his arm. “Down here. It's a short cut.” “Hulloa! You don't mean to say that you've been here by yourself?” She looked guilty; then smiled up from beneath her lashes. She had nothing to fear from Peter. “Often, since you first brought me. Once a week, at least; but don't tell mother. He's got no one to love except Mr. Widow. I--I'm sorry for him.” Mr. Widow certainly wasn't much to love. The secondhand shop had a cheerless aspect. On this winter's day the door stood open; Mr. Widow held that it was tempting to customers. Ocky crouched over a coke-stove, rubbing his hands. The moment Glory entered, she hurried toward him, putting her arms about his neck. His face lit up. “Why, it's Glory! Little Glory!” He ran his hands over her. “How beautiful! But you oughtn't to come. The Duchess'll find out. Oh yes, she will. She always finds out. Then, there'll be a row.” He caught sight of Peter. “Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old uncle! I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day's work! A bad day's work!” They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow's permission--Mr. Widow didn't approve of theatres. “Let him go hang,” Peter said. “That's all very well.” Ocky shook his head thoughtfully. “All very well! But he may let me go hang one fine morning. What then?”